Two Worlds Collide
by Ruth Cole
Summary: Ever wonder what led up to Joseph Black Moon and Ruth Cole forming a friendship that transformed into a sweet love story, captivating fans in Season 1? Two Worlds Collide fleshes out these poignant stories of Joseph and Ruth, told with the backdrop of the grungy, nomadic, dangerous town of Hell on Wheels. I do not own this story, nor the characters. Reviews welcome.
1. Delirium

A cold frail hand grips my warm supple hand. I give my dying mother a reassuring squeeze. She is the only soul I have left in this world. There is a father but he abandoned us. Mother clings to my hand like she clings to the idea that father will walk through the door at any second. Her congested cough touches my soul. I need her. I need to tell her that.

"Mother, dear. It's Ruth. Your daughter. I'm here. I haven't left."

I reassure her that everything is going to be okay. One of us has to be strong. Though I have been told I resemble an angelic porcelain doll that could shatter, my spirit perseveres.

"Child, has Nathaniel come home? It has been nearly a fort night since he left," my mother managed to say in a ragged breath.

Mother suffers from delirium due to the raging fever. I am aware of her death that looms over us. I am aware of the peril of being so near a contagious woman with consumption. But, you see, she isn't just any woman. She is my mother. She is on her deathbed at the Mission in Council Bluffs. Delirium confused her overtaxed mind.

I reply, "Papa has been gone for years. That's why he left us at the Mission."

A light of memory flickers in Mother's eyes like the flickering candle that barely illuminates our pale faces.

A paroxysm of coughs consumes her entire being. She hacks up blood into a rag. Instinctively, I release her hand, knowing the end is near. Knowing I would no longer have anyone once she perishes from God's green earth. Mother sits up. Sweat beads her weary face. She looks like me: hazel eyes and angelic face except her curly strawberry blonde hair is greying. And her cherubic face is now ashen. Mother once was beautiful. Now, she is haggard.

"Your father is on a great mission," Mother says, swallowing, "A mission to …. " Another fit of coughing distracts her.

As a small girl, I heard whispered tales from family friends and relatives late at night (when the grown-ups thought I was sleeping) about my father's mission. The real mission was John Brown's. Mother never spoke of Papa's involvement with a band of murderers in Bleeding Kansas. She was ashamed of his activities and despised his broadsword that reeked of death. Distressing memories remind me when Papa took that broadsword and left us in the middle of the night. It was shocking to learn as I got older, that my own father was entrenched in John Brown's doctrine and heavily involved in those massacres.

The man who refused to give my mother and I a single drop of love, convinced himself that he had a higher purpose. A mission to hack slaveholders to bits. He crowed to mother in a drunken rage that he showed no mercy to the slaveholding swine. "An eye for an eye," he bellowed. Mother tried to take his bottle away. A swift slap met her face. She sunk to the ground, bursting into tears. I have little memories of father except the times when he drank the corn likker late into dawn, awakening mother and beating her. They would have screaming matches like this. Frightened, I hid under the crude wooden plank that served as my bed, squeezing my eyes shut, praying to Jesus to make all the bad in the world go away. Watching Mother suffer at the hands of Papa's beatings was too much for a little girl to bear. The savagery of his actions still resonates in my mind today.

Clearly, Papa loved the extreme abolitionist movement more than his own family. When war erupted between the states, Papa left for good. I was but a girl when he rode off on horseback, tilting his hat at Mother, galloping off into the full moonlit night. In a letter penned by him, we learned that he joined up with the Jayhawkers to fight those rebellious Bushwhackers. After the second sacking of Lawrence, Papa insisted in his last letter to Mother, that we relocate to Council Bluffs. We did just that, leaving our home on the Marais des Cygnes for Iowa.

The Mission is were I presently am, watching Mother die before my eyes. Papa never came back to get us despite Mother clinging on to the hope that he would come back. Abandoned, Mother and I only have each other but soon, I will have no one. That other mission of Father's was what my mother started to say before her coughing fit.

"A mission to do what, Mother?" I ask gently, putting a cool damp cloth on her head.

Coming out of her delirium, she replies, "To convert the inferiors, my child. That is his calling." Another coughing spell consumes her. I rub her back soothingly.

My mind races. Inferiors means wild Indians. Had Papa finally put down the sword and found a new cause? Had he written to Mother about this?

"You are to join your father, my sweet Ruth, when I have come home to the Lord," she insists.

"No. That is nonsense. You will mend. I am taking care of you."

A beatific smile etches her cracked lips as her eyes glaze. Silent tears stream my cheeks. At this very moment, Mother peacefully comes home to the Lord right in front of my hazel brown eyes.

* * *

Several hours later, I am standing here, listening to a choir sing a dirge. Due to Mother's contagious state, benevolent men at the Mission bury Mother. I watch a crude wooden coffin sink into the earth. Mounds of dirt fall on the coffin. Tears well in my eyes. Father needs to know about her passing. I am that someone to tell him. At Mary Cole's (my dearly departed mother) graveside in the early morning, a kind-hearted, brown bearded Reverend, Peter Masterson, reads scripture while I weep. I kneel beside the mound of dirt, putting a white rose on it. It's unfair that she left. We needed each other. Turning to leave, the Reverend escorts me, offering his arm for support. Stumbling, I take it.

Reverend Masterson asks, "Are you an orphan, Miss Ruth?"

I shook my head, tasting salty tears. Swallowing, I say, "I have a father. He is a minister like yourself."

"The Mission has an obligation to send you to your father. Where is his church? Kansas?"

"I don't know. Somewhere out west. Frankly, I know nothing of his whereabouts. He abandoned mother and I for the war."

Placing a strong hand on my shoulder, Reverend Masterson says reassuringly, "I will locate your father. In this time of sorrow, you need the support of your family."

I feign a smile. The heavens open up, dumping a relentless rain that soddens my black mourning dress. Soon after, it rains for days and days while I wait for word about Father.

* * *

At the weeks end, Reverend Masterson finds me in the girls' quarters at the Mission.

"Miss Ruth," He informs me, "I have discovered your father, Reverend Cole, is ministering to the railroad workers of the Union Pacific."

"Then I shall go."

The Reverend admonishes me, "This is no place for women folk, missy. If your father had a church, I would have no qualms escorting you to him. I forbid you to go."

I give a complaisant nod. For the remainder of the day, I fight back tears and the naughty urge to defy Reverend Masterson's orders. That night, I go to bed with the other girls. Not able to stand it any longer, I make up my mind. I wait a long time before everyone is sound asleep. Creeping out of bed, I hurry into my undergarments (chemise, corset, hoop skirt, and petticoat) and pull my black bow-tie dress over top my head. I grab my black bonnet with the red plaid ribbons, gloves, and my wool cape.

"Goodbye, Mother," I whisper dolefully.

When daylight breaks, I leave Council Bluffs, bereft from the sudden void in my life. It is unfair that the only person who loved me in the world left so soon. Looking at the sky, I pray to the Heavenly Father that Papa will be overcome with joy after years a part from his only child. Despite my father's flaws, I miss him and am certain he misses me. I leave Council Bluffs on the train bereft but I leave with a thread of hope that I will find my father, reunite with him, and have a family again. Any questions asked why I am traveling alone, I will reply that the Mission sent me.

* * *

***Note*** This concludes the end of the first chapter. I made the decision to tell the story in the present tense which I thought would be an interesting concept. I only used the past tense with flashbacks and will try to use this sparingly in further chapters. Formatting issued resolved! I ship JBM and Ruth and hope they get back together in Season 4. I hope to see more JBM fanfics out there!

***Extra*** There was not enough room to fit my entire blurb, so here it is in its entirety:

Ever wonder what led up to Joseph Black Moon and Ruth Cole forming a friendship that transformed into a sweet love story that captivated fans in Season 1_?__Two Worlds Collide_ fleshes out these poignant stories of a curious Cheyenne warrior turned Christian struggling with his identity, Joseph Black Moon, and a preacher's daughter whose innocence shatters in her unraveling world, Ruth Cole, told with the backdrop of the grungy, nomadic, dangerous town of _Hell on Wheels_. I do not own this story nor the characters. Reviews are welcome.


	2. Black Moon

It's what the whites call a solar eclipse. That was how Father came up with my name when I was brought into the world in the summer of 1842. _Mo'ohta Taàé-eéhe_ is what I answer to in my tongue. In the white man's tongue, I call myself Black Moon. I am the second born of seven children. My father is the revered and formidable Chief Many Horses and my late mother was Ninovan, a righteous woman.

Presently, I am standing before Reverend Cole, a slender and tall, white bearded missionary– my adopted father. He is preparing for my baptism at the top of a lush green hill beside the river. Thanks to him, I have found Jesus but my memories rush back to me.

My earliest memories are vivid: stunning wildflowers that grew by the banks of the creek, running around giddy with the other children, and stacking rocks on the banks of that same creek. I spent much time there with Mother, where she bathed me. I recall the thrilling sensation of her dropping me to pick me back up again. In the mind of a child, I thought I would always have her in my life. Unexpectedly, she was quickly taken by cholera when I was but a young boy. Though I barely remember her walking on amongst our ancestors at such a young age, life was not the same. That pain, I still carry in my heart.

Growing up, I was closest to my eldest brother, Pawnee Killer. He was smaller than me in stature but had the heart of a warrior. The other boys picked on him but he learned to stand up to the bullies and fight his own battles to become a stronger man. That made me admire Pawnee Killer. He fought to be accepted by our childhood friends, having a fierce conviction that he belonged. The other boys always accepted me but something never felt right. Ever since I can remember, my curiosity got the best of me, asking anyone, "What is that? Who are we? Who are they? Where do they come from? What are we doing here?" All of these questions are innocuous for a child to ask but to an adult, they are heavy hitting questions that led me to pursue a new life.

I lived a traditional Cheyenne childhood, helping my grandmother clean the teepee in the mornings and playing lacrosse with my friends in the afternoon. The evening was my favorite part of the day, listening to the elders in the village tell tales by the campfire. Taking part in my religion, I learned about the importance of the sun dance and the animal dance. Though I questioned many things as a child, I would not question my religion until after I found my guardian spirit during my twelfth spring. Once on a deer hunting trip, I asked Pawnee Killer, if he was curious what the trappers and missionaries believed. He responded with "No. We give thanks to our ancestors through our traditions: our dances and way of life. What we believe … it is because it is." That made sense to me.

Reverend Cole walks me down the hill, holding my hand in a way my father used to hold my hand when I was a boy. My new life awaits in that water.

My father did his duty instilling our traditional Cheyenne values in each of his sons and daughters. I admired my assertive father, the Chief, wanting to be a great leader like him when I became a man. And I admired my older brother, Pawnee Killer, wanting to be a great warrior like him. As I got older, father taught me how to hunt and fish but most importantly, he taught me how to protect my family. From him, I honed my weaponry skills: the tomahawk, the spear, knives, the bow and arrow, and rifle. Father instilled in me to protect the women and children at all costs. Today, that is still ingrained in me.

Starting when I was a small boy, I was around white men. I knew their language – English – thanks to Auntie (she had a Cheyenne mother and a half French/half English father) who taught me how to speak and read it. And I knew a handful of white men– bearded trappers visited our encampment to trade with my people every spring. It was a week before I embarked on my rite of passage: to search for my guardian spirit, when the first of many missionaries, trickled into our village. I observed them, standing next to Father and Pawnee Killer. The odd way they dressed struck me as did their beards and short hair. I compared their dress in my mind to my fringed buckskin shirt and pants, my clean shaven face, and my two long braids that hung against my chest. Their difference intrigued me. They spoke of Jesus and peace while handing out bibles. I took one, not understanding what it was. My brother scoffed at them. The bible, I decided, to store amongst my belongings in Father's teepee.

A week later, as the sun rose over the tree line at dawn, I embarked on searching for my guardian spirit. Out in the wilderness on my own, I grew accustomed to the sounds of each animal I encountered. On the fourth night, I was about to give up when I heard something. Looking passed my left shoulder, I saw it. It was an owl who hooted. I hooted a reply. It hooted at me before flying off. The owl is a curious nocturnal bird that silently observes his surroundings. The owl watches the comings and goings of life in its vicinity. That is my guardian spirit.

I came back not a changed person as I had hoped. I came back accepting that I was a curious soul. I came back a man. My family welcomed my return with open arms. A warm stew and blanket, given to me by my sisters, warmed my heart as I sat by a flickering, crackling, hissing fire. In the coming days, I stayed busy hunting all day by setting up snares for rabbits and stalking deer. Now, I could provide for my village and protect my people.

Reverend Cole and I stand in the water while church goers – men and women – sing a hymn. I gladly accept Jesus Christ into my heart. Another memory flashes in my mind. A grim one.

It had been 19 summers when I read that bible many times over a campfire. I didn't understand it all by found myself riveted by the stories. I compared them to our people's stories. This year was a turning point in my life. I took the life of a man. It was a raid of Pawnees who attacked a group of our men not far from our encampment. With my bow and arrow in hand, I shot down a man running at me with a tomahawk. He fell to the earth and his body slumped. Killing an animal for food is one thing. Animals bring nourishment, clothe us, shelter us, and provide us tools. The slaughter of man is not an act I took pleasure in but something that was necessary. My life was at risk. I took my arrow in my hand and I shot him down. Not once. I kept shooting him down until he was no more. Then I shot down another Pawnee dog soldier. I turned my head and saw my brother shoot down warrior after warrior in a salvo of no mercy. When the killing was done, blood was on my hands. Going back to the village, we were seen as heros but I remained silent. I spent the night outside alone, meditating yet failing to clear my mind of the harrowing, harsh realities of war. Killing made me into a different man.

The next time I killed a man, it was a raid on white settlers who ravaged and pillaged a neighboring Cheyenne village. Seeking vengeance overpowered the altruism in my mind. I killed their men. I slit throats. I showed no mercy. I tasted their blood. Joseph Black Moon killed and was a dog soldier. More settlers in the future met their cruel demise. But was it cruel when they ransacked our villages, massacred our people, and raped our women? It was heinous and there would be blood. I spared no one but the women and children. Their lives, I spared, so that they could live the horror for the rest of their lives and know the evil deeds committed by their fathers, husbands, and brothers.

I was a dog soldier for six springs. Fighting to protect our way of life. In those years, Pawnee Killer took a wife. She would bear him a son but die giving life to him. That baby boy did not make it. The deaths left my brother feeling eviscerated and bereft. Hopelessness consumed his soul until one day, he snapped. On a wagon train raid, I saw Pawnee Killer drag a woman with flame red hair and murder her with his knife. I begged for him not to harm her but he would not listen. My older brother was a flawed man but this ruthless act made me question his sanity. Did his wife's death and babe's death alter his mind, sending him off that deep cliff into oblivion? A descent into madness? On the return home, I mentioned what I saw to father. He answered me with a grunt then admonished me to never speak of what I saw again. As a man, I accept that all mankind is flawed but what my brother did was evil.

What my brother did never left me. Flashbacks came to me during the day and at night in dreams. I thought I was having visions. I blamed myself for not acting. A part of me wanted to step in and protect that helpless white woman. But the other part of me wanted revenge on all the injustices executed by those perpetrators. I could not reconcile both. I stood there, watching the horror as it unfolded before my deep brown eyes. Witnessing him lick the sticky blood off his knife. I opened my eyes in a cold sweat the last time I had that haunting vision. What was going on with my brother? It occurred to me that Pawnee Killer was cogent. Not insane. He knew the difference between right and wrong. These egregious acts did not sit well with me. My brother just wasn't the same man. Our buffalo hunts were different after that killing. My boyhood friends sided with Pawnee Killer. They saw him as this great warrior in our tribe.

The last time I killed was during the Power River Expeditions of 1865. I never counted the number of men I destroyed before, but there were many. The Sand Creek Massacre, the following winter, galvanized Cheyenne, Lakota, and Arapaho dog soldiers to reprise our fight with the white man's soldiers. War erupted in our region. Chief Many Horses, rejecting Black Kettle's pacifism, sent his warriors to join the fight. I was honored to fight for revered men like Red Cloud, Roman Nose, and Morning Star (Dull Knife). It was summer when a large war party of Cheyenne warriors assembled for a bloody fight on the Platte River Bridge. Crazy Horse, himself, rode into the Union soldiers, failing at enticing them to chase him into the hills where our forces awaited. I shot a white soldier tending a wounded comrade. Right in the forehead. Stunned, he dropped like a fly. This time, I calmly rejoined my Cheyenne brothers.

Reverend Cole speaks a flowery speech, calling me a humble servant. Two billowing clouds of black smoke spout into the atmosphere like geysers. My mind returns to the moment I met this minister of a formidable height.

A month after I returned to my village from the fighting, I settled into a numb rhythm of hunting. The numbness that resided in my soul was the same numbness I developed, killing man after man. It was a chilly fall afternoon when I decided to confront my brother about the innocent woman he murdered.

While mending my bow with deftness, I asked, "Why did you kill her, Pawnee Killer? She was defenseless."

Knowing of whom I spoke, he scoffed, "Hah! A warrior spares no one. White man encroaches on our way of life and takes what does not belong to them. I take from him. If I spared her, she births a new son that will kill our sons."

Killing innocent women and children made sense in his mind that I thought had become so twisted.

I gave him a withering expression, "But, that is wrong."

Something in my mind clicked. I was tired of killing. I did not voice that change of heart to my brother. He just knew. Pawnee Killer shook his head in disapproval and stalked off toward Father's teepee. I would sacrifice everything to preserve my people's way of life. So would Pawnee Killer. We just couldn't agree any longer on what that sacrifice was. He sacrificed his morals as a man to kill while I decided from that day forth, to sacrifice my Cheyenne values for peace.

I took a walk by the edge of the camp, into the woods. I craved tranquility. I was done fighting. Like Black Kettle, peace and understanding was my goal. My glance caught the tall missionary, Reverend Cole, who rode the narrow wooded path on a chestnut mare. The Reverend approached me with his worn black bible held firmly in his palm. His eyes were kind but weary.

He spoke in broken Cheyenne that translated to, "Disciple … great spirit."

I grinned, rubbing along my braid to its loose tip.

Switching to English, the clergyman asked, "Have you found Jesus, my son?"

"No. Tell me about him," I answered with pith.

From that moment on, I decided to learn about the white man. The only way to do that was to have a new life as a Christian convert with Reverend Cole who could fill in all those unanswered questions: What is this Iron Horse? Who are these people? Why do they really want to come in to our country? What do they want from us? Why do they encroach upon our way of life?"

That evening, I assisted Reverend Cole with building a small fire and shelter. He spoke of his love of Christ. Said that he was a Congregationalist and a humble servant to his God whom he called, The Lord. The way he talked captivated me. I noticed he was a man of good morals promoting peace. He, too, sought peace out of a violent war he referred to as the War Between the States. White men were fighting each other. It made me think of my people fighting the Pawnee. I was done with violence and chose to live a redeeming life as a servant to Jesus. In the months to come, I spent time with Reverend Cole. We became close, developing a deep affection and bond for one another. He felt like a second father to me. He often commented that I was the son he never had.

I retired my traditional Cheyenne buckskin for the white man's peculiar clothes: grey cotton button shirt, black trousers, suspenders, black pinstripe vest, black leather shoes, my black beaver telescoped crown hat with a curled brim. I cut my hair and wore it shoulder length.

The change of dress was not the only thing I changed about myself. I spoke English. I read their books (provided by the good Reverend who thought I was an apt pupil). I ate their food. I adopted their customs. It took half a year, being indoctrinated in the Christian religion and assimilated into their culture. Reverend Cole wanted to take me, his new convert, to a nomadic town that followed the construction of the Iron Horse's trail. We would go there and bring his church in a wagon after my baptism. By the glory and grace of God, I was ready to be baptized.

The Reverend plugs my nose while the choir gently sings a hymn about our Savior. He tells me, "Be reborn in the glory of Jesus."

He dunks me into the water. I let him do this willingly with open eyes, wanting to be awash of my sins. To forget my dark past. To focus on a promising future. An eagle soars in the blue domed sky, gliding through the air. It screeches, telling me not to forget who I am. That no matter how much I adopt a new way of life, I will always be Cheyenne. I will always know my heritage and stay true to myself. I am ready to minister to the masses about the love and forgiveness Jesus gives you when you take him into your heart. Jesus forgives me. I am a new man.

I come out of the river, shivering cold. My reflex is to spit the water out of my mouth.

"Brother Joseph," the Reverend says, kissing me, "your sins are washed away." We stand there with joyful hearts looking at the choir. I am a new man, bound to convert the wicked in a town they call, Hell on Wheels.

* * *

***Note*** In order to tell JBM's story, I needed to move between past and present tenses. Stay tuned for more to come!


	3. Raise the Church

Zebras. Lions. Weak. Powerful. But what are they really? Spiraling, billowing dark clouds of ominous smoke catch my attention as I ride my horse through a valley beside the serpentine river. To my left, a majestic verdant mound of cliffs on the opposite bank overlooks a horror that blights my eyes as I near what I feared.

I sensed something was wrong when the, Mr. Durant, the man in charge of this railroad, called the Union Pacific, summoned me to his caboose. The train had not gone far before it stopped. Riding in the wagon with Reverend Cole against a stormy backdrop of clouds, we saw one of Durant's men– Bolin, fast approaching our wagon. Bolin, a dark blonde hair man, was not very tall, nor very muscular but very handy with his gun, as I witnessed men routinely gun downed by him on the streets. Reverend Cole and I buried more souls than we converted. It did not demoralize us but influenced us more to keep the faith.

Adjusting his brim pointed bowler hat, he informed Reverend Cole that Mr. Durant requested me to ride the Iron Beast out toward the new camp town. He looked as gruff as the other workers with his scruffy short beard. His blue eyes were dull. I wondered what made Bolin so fearsome. Was he a mischievous child that evolved into a hardened adult? After delivering his verbal message, he rode straight toward the front of the wagon line, rejoining the railroad's security force.

Shortly, I traversed toward the train and got on. With a quick jolt, the Iron Beast chugged slowly on its tracks. The sensation of being on the train was odd for me. I walked with trepidation through the cars to the back of the train, to see what Durant wanted. Before knocking, I heard him talking to someone. He gave some grandiose speech of a lion conquering a zebra. The more he spoke of zebras and lions, the more I realized, he did not refer to animals (that was what I assumed he meant) but people. People dominating people. My people? The free slaves? The poor white men? All of us? What did this Mr. Durant really want?

The last words Mr. Durant uttered were, "but remember this: without me and men like me, your glorious railroad would never be built."

Balling my right hand into a fist, I moved to knock on the door.

"Joseph, you may come in!" Durant uttered gruffly.

Opening the door, the stench of whiskey assaulted my senses. Mr. Durant was profusely drunk, putting on a cogent facade, sitting in his chair with a glass of the white man's evil stalely splashing its translucent confines. He was plumper than I imagined. His attitude was as haughty as his well-tailored clothes that I found ridiculous looking. Authoritative, commanding, and domineering– he was not a humble soul. Still he was a curiosity. Durant's wavy dark red-brown hair was cut neatly and he was clean-shaven … something rarely seen on white men. His grey-green eyes were half open, following my feet until they met my eyes dead even. He was figuring me out as I was figuring him out.

"I haven't heard any news from my surveyor, Robert Bell. He is in Cheyenne Territory, Joseph. You are a Cheyenne, are you not, boy?"

I nodded silently, eyeing him carefully, studying him. This was a man I could never trust. Something about him. Something not quite sinister but not quite right.

A taller pale man with a formidable presence entered the caboose. He had straight dark brown hair, wearing nothing but black from his hat, overcoat, and boots. His dull grey eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. He was clean-shaven like Durant but more austere and grim in manner. The pale man stood rigidly straight, as if his spine were made of the steel from the railroad tracks. Where Durant was a loud mouth, this man was taciturn.

"Calculating, sinister, perfidious, don't trust these men," swirled in my brain. These words admonished me of the peril I could be in. My spine tingled to be in their presence. It dawned on me that this was Mr. Durant's head of security, the Mr. Gundersen, the infamous Swede. I had seen the Swede and his men – Bolin and Dix – ride recklessly through the streets. No one would dare cross paths with them. Reverend Cole often prays to Jesus to forgive these men for their cruelty.

"Is this savage bothering you, Mr. Durant?" The Swede asked in an obsequious tone. His accent was peculiar to me.

If Thomas Durant were the lion, then the Swede was the snake, hiding in the bushes, waiting for the attack.

"Attend to your duties, Mr. Gundersen. This is Joseph Black Moon, a Cheyenne convert of Reverend Cole's. I'm sending him on a scouting mission, out to the surveyors' camp. He is to look for Robert Bell. Mr. Gundersen, I need you to keep security here shipshape. One more thing, Joseph, there is a woman in the camp– Mr. Bell's wife. See that she is safe. Don't know why a surveyor would insist bringing his wife into hostile territory. Madness."

Durant downed the last drops of his whiskey, grimacing at the slight burn it did to his throat. He pointed at me with his glass, "You are dismissed, Joseph. Mr. Gundersen, may I have a word with you?"

I nodded. There was no choice. Those were orders. I was not pleased to be his scout but I would have left on my own volition anyway, helping out my fellow man in need. Something was not right. I even sensed it. There were more rumors circulating of Indian attacks and my mind whispered something I did not have the heart admitting: Pawnee Killer was involved. No, but he couldn't be. I squashed those thoughts. I may be a convert but I was no traitor. As soon as the train stopped, the U.P. made camp. After Reverend Cole went to bed, I left him a note, telling him about my mission and not to worry. God would watch over me.

* * *

My horse canters us through a bucolic field of yellow coneflowers. The natural beauty is raw and grand here. Would Mr. Durant's ugly railroad blight the earth of this serene place? Perhaps my duty in life is to save it from catastrophe by acting peacefully between my people and the railroad? This place is beautiful and serene but that picture is mangled as I fast approach the aftermath of an atrocity of epic repercussions.

Blood stains the innocent yellow coneflowers. Human blood. Zebra blood. It is all what Mr. Durant predicted. I see all of this, wishing I could burn these flagrant images from my brain.

Overturn wagons, white tents, and furniture strew the land along with corpses. Burning small flames litter the green blades of grass. Getting down from my horse, I investigate the scene. Surely, this was the work of another tribe? Another group of people? Wrong.

Picking up an arrow, the ferocity of the attacks resonates strongly with me. I twist the arrow in my fingers, piecing together everything. Pursing my lips, I grimace, looking sorrowfully ahead. It's not just sorrow I feel but disappointment … in someone. My brother, Pawnee Killer, is behind this. My heart aches. Anger. An emotion I can't help but feel. But hate, no. I love my brother. Answers. I need answers.

Who is the lion here? The powerful beast? Pawnee Killer? This is his work. Durant? He has influence over the Union Army that could wipe out my people and anyone else in his way. Who is the zebra here? The people slaughtered at the hands of my brother's handy work? The railroad workers being oppressed by Durant? My people slaughtered at the hands of the cavalry? Days like this, it is hard to think that Jesus loves. How can Jesus make what I have witnessed here today, happen? Why, Jesus? Why? Durant was right. The lion prevailed.

* * *

How does a zebra reason with a lion? How could I reason with Durant let alone my brother? I camp out the next two nights, looking for signs of Pawnee Killer. He is in the vicinity with other dog soldiers. Roaming through meadows, I come upon dense woods, entering a forest, following the signs that I hope would ultimately lead me to my brother. Broken leaves, snapped twigs, newly beaten down path … I am closing in on someone.

Trees thin out as I thread my way around delicate white bushes. The smell of a campfire tipped me off earlier that this could be it. A rifle that is propped up against a tree is another tip-off. Stepping in to full view, I see dog soldiers around a small fire with a brown and white paint horse behind them. They are Cheyenne dog soldiers, alright. One of the braves is brushing his hair with a lady's brush. The other two murmur amongst themselves. The man with his back to me is my older brother. My heart sinks. It is true.

I blurt out, "Where is she?"

All three dog soldiers stand up, alarmed. Almost amused but intrigued to my presence, Pawnee Killer immediately recognizes me.

"Hello, little brother." He greets me with a half smile. "What are you doing way out here?"

I step between Pawnee Killer and the brave holding the lady's brush. My mind quickly pieces together that another woman may have died at the hands of my brother. She must have been part of the surveying camp. Unamused, I roll my eyes, approaching the man holding the brush.

Grabbing the brush out of the brave's hands and holding it firmly in my palm, I demand, "Where's the woman?"

Discerning my meaning, Pawnee Killer responds, "I don't have her … yet."

Furious, I reply reproachfully, "You kill white men, that's one thing …" Shaking the brush, I raise my voice, "but you take one of their women, you'll have every damn one of them hunting you down."

Not concerned, Pawnee Killer nods knowingly, almost smiling. "Good. I'll count coup and get more scalps."

Feeling a mixture of crestfallen and anger, I shake my head, turning to leave. "I hope it was worth it."

Once I start walking back, Pawnee Killer taunts me, demanding scornfully, "What about all the scalps you took?"

Stopping in my tracks, I look over my left shoulder listening.

He continues, mocking me, "You act so pure now," as he nods his head, "but I remember there was a time when you loved the taste of blood."

I glare at him. That arrogance. Sucking in my pain, I nod, proudly telling Pawnee Killer, "Jesus has forgiven me for that."

"Jesus may have forgiven you," Pawnee Killer said derisively, nodding his head, "but do you think your white friends would?"

Staring off into the distance, knowing there was truth to what Pawnee Killer just asked, I purse my lips, starting to walk off. I don't want to think of what my white friends would do. Reverend Cole would never harm me. Pawnee Killer spoke nonsense. But perilous nonsense. If Mr. Durant knew about my past, that could put me in danger.

My brother taunts me as I step forward to walk off again. "You better find her before I do."

I glare at him one last time before stalking off completely. Why can't my brother listen to me? He is not afraid of anything. Fearless. I fear the repercussions of his evil deeds and I fear Mr. Durant and the Swede. I fear the Union Army. Is the church my only sanctuary?

Folding my hands and bowing my head, I pray earnestly to God, "Let there be peace on earth. Amen."

* * *

A day later, I am now searching for a white woman. I don't know what she looks like but I have to find her before Pawnee Killer does. Her life is in danger. Turkey vultures circle the sky above a tall grove of trees near the river. Something is up. Dismounting from my horse, I enter the grove, investigating my surroundings. Hearing fast approaching footsteps, I freeze.

Looking straight ahead, a pulchritudinous blonde creature with captivating blue eyes, hobbles quickly into the grove. She is being chased … by Pawnee Killer. Not wanting to alert my brother's attention, I swiftly grab her, muffling her mouth with my hand. I hold this petrified creature against me while she screams softly into my hand. The blonde woman whimpers, failing at breaking free from my hold. She struggles as the three dog soldiers canter by on their horses, scouring the woods for her. I look menacingly at them, preparing to fight to the death. My anger augments at what my brother did to this poor, helpless woman.

Our faces lean against each other as I silently watch Pawnee Killer and his two friends ride off, losing her trail. Blood soaks the bandages on her hand and dress. The beautiful creature reeks of death and body odor. She must have been out in the elements for over two days. Her smell repulses me but I ignore it, knowing she needs help from a good Samaritan– me.

As soon as the coast is clear, I remove my hand from the lady's mouth. She collapses to the ground and blacks out. It's imperative that I get her back to camp. Bending down, I pick her up, carrying her to where my horse waits. Her breathing is shallow but she is breathing. I lie the hurt woman across the horse then mount myself. Pulling her up by her sides, I hold her up in the saddle against me. She groans. Turning around, I take off to a gallop, heading back to the new railroad camp. Her blonde wet curls fly into my face. It starts to rain.

I ride for only an hour when I realize the wounded woman's identity. Durant's obnoxious utterance of Mr. Robert Bell rings in my head. I wonder if this is Mrs. Bell, his wife. It rains harder.

Overcome by delirium while we ride, she moans, "Robert, Robert, Robert."

This makes up my mind that she is Mrs. Bell. She droops. Travel is getting more difficult for her. Heading out of dense forest, my horse whinnies, entering a meadow. Rain falls steadily. Mrs. Bell softly moans. She could be dying. That worries me. The blonde woman's dainty head droops while I hold the reins against her chest, supporting her.

By now, it's necessary to halt our journey back to town. Her body radiates so much heat, without feeling her head, I know she has a fever.

Slowing down the horse, I ask of her condition, "Mrs. Bell?"

No response. She may be delirious. My concern for augments. She needs immediate attention.

Looking over her shoulder, into her face, I ask again, "Mrs. Bell?"

Again, no response. She's no longer moaning which really concerns me. I look at the other side of her face. Mrs. Bell seems overcome by lassitude, her body drooping forward against the horse.

"Oh, no!" I mutter.

Time to dismount, I say soothingly to my horse, "Whoa, boy." Getting off my horse, I let out a breath, then I painstakingly assist the injured woman, preparing to carry her. Mrs. Bell sits up straight before falling sideways into my right broad shoulder.

If it couldn't get any worse, it thunders. Adjusting her in my arms, I search for a dry spot to examine her. My horse obediently waits not too far from where I'm carrying Mrs. Bell. Up ahead, there is a bed of dry prairie grass in front of a forest. There, I lie her upon it, crouching down onto my knees. The poor woman is still unconscious. Her blood soaked chest near her heart catches my attention. Taking off my hat and setting it on the ground, I proceed to examine the wound. It is sewn up but easy to surmise she was wounded by an arrow. The rain does not let up.

A noise startles me. The noise of a gun cocking. I freeze. Did Pawnee Killer find us? Has he been tracking us? Alarmed, my eyes widen in fear. Turning around, my eyes lie on a white man around six feet tall, wearing worn and stained black and grey wool clothes. His pocket watch shines from the fallen droplets of rain that got on it. The stranger menacingly points a rifle at me. His suspicious eyes are a dull grey blue, peering at my questionable presence beside an injured white woman.

While holding my palms up and over Mrs. Bell's body, the stranger yells, "You speak English?"

"Yes, sir." I answer timidly, not wanting my life to end this soon.

He points the rifle toward the left, barking, "Move!"

Maintaining as much of a calm expression that I could muster, I stand up, stepping away from Mrs. Bell. Thunder rolls while I move further away from the poor injured lamb. Now, I worry that this threatening man will not only harm me but Mrs. Bell. His scraggly salt and pepper beard and medium length messy hair match his untidy clothes. From what I gather, he is not unkempt in appearance but untidy because he is a traveler … maybe a rambler? No. A drifter? A renegade? Not a friend of the railroad, surely not?

The stranger keeps eyeing Mrs. Bell while I step even further away from her. He has as many questions for me as I have for him. "Who are you," demands the stranger.

I nod in deference, "Joseph Black Moon."

"Cheyenne?"

"Christian," I say forthrightly, wanting him to know that I am harmless. That I am good. I hold my hands at a rigid arms length from my thighs, looking into the barrel of a rifle.

"Whoa, whoa!" The stranger does not trust me. I don't trust him.

He continues, pointing his rifle downward, "Hold steady."

I move my arms up from my body. The stranger aims to search me for weapons, eyeing me with contempt.

Biting my lip, I say forthrightly, "I'm unarmed, sir." Didn't he hear that I am a Christian?

His hand swiftly searches inside my coat, around my vest, and on the sides of my torso, sending unwanted shivers up my spine. Feeling apprehensive while standing there, small droplets of sweat glide down my back.

The stranger demands in a clipped tone, "What did you do to her?"

"I-I– "

Raising his voice, he interjects, "Hey!"

"I didn't do– "

"What did you do to her?!" The stranger demands austerely.

Irritated by his level of mistrust, swallowing, I insist vehemently, "I saved her."

The stranger gives me a dubious expression, finally deciding I am harmless. "From the Indians?" His eyes are still laced with doubt.

"Yes, sir!" Shifting my weight on my feet, I elucidate for the stranger, "She took an arrow to the shoulder. I'm trying to take her to the railroad to see the doctor."

The stranger gazes at me, still suspicious, then gazes at Mrs. Bell. By now, he is aware that I am truthfully unarmed. He walks over to Mrs. Bell to examine her. I look off in the distance, still worried about dog soldiers searching for us while the stranger crouches on Mrs. Bell's left side. He sets his rifle on the ground and takes off his hat. Placing his palm on her head, he sees the lady's grave state. Next, he checks out her wound.

Concerned, the stranger asks, "When this happen?"

"Two, maybe three days ago."

He sighs, "Alright," pulling out a flask. Unscrewing the top of it, he instructs me, "My horse. There's a field kit in the saddle bag."

The man downs a swig of whatever libation is in the flask while I hustle over to his horse. The rain lets up some but the wind sets in. The temperature is dropping fast as I feel the bitter cold pierce through my wool clothes.

Finding the field kit, I grab it, hustle over to Mrs. Bell, and hand it to the stranger. "Here."

He takes it, pulling out a folding tool that looks like a tiny pocket knife on a bone white handle.

"Hold her down," The man barks.

I crouch down, putting pressure on her right shoulder. He places the tool on the make-shift stitches while it thunders and birds in the trees squawk. She comes to, opening her angelic blue eyes, dazed. The stranger takes a swig of whiskey while steadying the medical instrument with the other hand. The arrow must be removed immediately before infection sets in. Both the stranger and I know this. Mrs. Bell looks at her chest and the stranger removes the stitches with his crude tool. She screams instinctively, groans, and struggles to get free of this impromptu operation. I hold her down while all the stitches are removed. At last, the arrow is fished out with pliers.

All over, she pants while the stranger and I place our palms on her, trying to soothe her. The stranger makes her drink whiskey from his flask before cleaning and dressing the wound. She lets out raspy breaths while the stranger sews up a new stitch. I pray to Jesus that her life is saved. I thank the Lord for this reluctant good Samaritan. Jesus loves. Jesus watches over his flock like this poor little lamb. The lion may prevail, but today is the zebra's day.

* * *

***Note*** Thank you all for reading! Please leave a review and stay tuned to learn more about Joseph and Ruth. I have been busy lately, so thank you for your patience. More to come! :-)


	4. The Lion - Shall – Prevail!

A cold frail hand grips my warm supple hand. I give my dying mother a reassuring squeeze. She is the only soul I have left in this world. There is a father but he abandoned us. Mother clings to my hand like she clings to the idea that father will walk through the door at any second. Her congested cough touches my soul. I need her. I need to tell her that.

"Mother, dear. It's Ruth. Your daughter. I'm here. I haven't left."

I reassure her that everything is going to be okay. One of us has to be strong. Though I have been told I resemble an angelic porcelain doll that could shatter, my spirit perseveres.

"Child, has Nathaniel come home? It has been nearly a fort night since he left," my mother managed to say in a ragged breath.

Mother suffers from delirium due to the raging fever. I am aware of her death that looms over us. I am aware of the peril of being so near a contagious woman with consumption. But, you see, she isn't just any woman. She is my mother. She is on her deathbed at the Mission in Council Bluffs. Delirium confused her overtaxed mind.

I reply, "Papa has been gone for years. That's why he left us at the Mission."

A light of memory flickers in Mother's eyes like the flickering candle that barely illuminates our pale faces.

A paroxysm of coughs consumes her entire being. She hacks up blood into a rag. Instinctively, I release her hand, knowing the end is near. Knowing I would no longer have anyone once she perishes from God's green earth. Mother sits up. Sweat beads her weary face. She looks like me: hazel eyes and angelic face except her curly strawberry blonde hair is greying. And her cherubic face is now ashen. Mother once was beautiful. Now, she is haggard.

"Your father is on a great mission," Mother says, swallowing, "A mission to …. " Another fit of coughing distracts her.

As a small girl, I heard whispered tales from family friends and relatives late at night (when the grown-ups thought I was sleeping) about my father's mission. The real mission was John Brown's. Mother never spoke of Papa's involvement with a band of murderers in Bleeding Kansas. She was ashamed of his activities and despised his broadsword that reeked of death. Distressing memories remind me when Papa took that broadsword and left us in the middle of the night. It was shocking to learn as I got older, that my own father was entrenched in John Brown's doctrine and heavily involved in those massacres.

The man who refused to give my mother and I a single drop of love, convinced himself that he had a higher purpose. A mission to hack slaveholders to bits. He crowed to mother in a drunken rage that he showed no mercy to the slaveholding swine. "An eye for an eye," he bellowed. Mother tried to take his bottle away. A swift slap met her face. She sunk to the ground, bursting into tears. I have little memories of father except the times when he drank the corn likker late into dawn, awakening mother and beating her. They would have screaming matches like this. Frightened, I hid under the crude wooden plank that served as my bed, squeezing my eyes shut, praying to Jesus to make all the bad in the world go away. Watching Mother suffer at the hands of Papa's beatings was too much for a little girl to bear. The savagery of his actions still resonates in my mind today.

Clearly, Papa loved the extreme abolitionist movement more than his own family. When war erupted between the states, Papa left for good. I was but a girl when he rode off on horseback, tilting his hat at Mother, galloping off into the full moonlit night. In a letter penned by him, we learned that he joined up with the Jayhawkers to fight those rebellious Bushwhackers. After the second sacking of Lawrence, Papa insisted in his last letter to Mother, that we relocate to Council Bluffs. We did just that, leaving our home on the Marais des Cygnes for Iowa.

The Mission is were I presently am, watching Mother die before my eyes. Papa never came back to get us despite Mother clinging on to the hope that he would come back. Abandoned, Mother and I only have each other but soon, I will have no one. That other mission of Father's was what my mother started to say before her coughing fit.

"A mission to do what, Mother," I ask gently, putting a cool damp cloth on her head.

Coming out of her delirium, she replies, "To convert the inferiors, my child. That is his calling." Another coughing spell consumes her. I rub her back soothingly.

My mind races. Inferiors means wild Indians. Had Papa finally put down the sword and found a new cause? Had he written to Mother about this?

"You are to join your father, my sweet Ruth, when I have come home to the Lord," she insists.

"No. That is nonsense. You will mend. I am taking care of you."

A beatific smile etches her cracked lips as her eyes glaze. Silent tears stream my cheeks. At this very moment, Mother peacefully comes home to the Lord right in front of my hazel brown eyes.

Several hours later, I am standing here, listening to a choir sing a dirge. Due to Mother's contagious state, benevolent men at the Mission bury Mother. I watch a crude wooden coffin sink into the earth. Mounds of dirt fall on the coffin. Tears well in my eyes. Father needs to know about her passing. I am that someone to tell him. At Mary Cole's (my dearly departed mother) graveside in the early morning, a kind-hearted, brown bearded Reverend, Peter Masterson, reads scripture while I weep. I kneel beside the mound of dirt, putting a white rose on it. It's unfair that she left. We needed each other. Turning to leave, the Reverend escorts me, offering his arm for support. Stumbling, I take it.

Reverend Masterson asks, "Are you an orphan, Miss Ruth?"

I shook my head, tasting salty tears. Swallowing, I say, "I have a father. He is a minister like yourself."

"The Mission has an obligation to send you to your father. Where is his church? Kansas?"

"I don't know. Somewhere out west. Frankly, I know nothing of his whereabouts. He abandoned mother and I for the war."

Placing a strong hand on my shoulder, Reverend Masterson says reassuringly, "I will locate your father. In this time of sorrow, you need the support of your family."

I feign a smile. The heavens open up, dumping a relentless rain that soddens my black mourning dress. Soon after, it rains for days and days while I wait for word about Father.

At the weeks end, Reverend Masterson finds me in the girls' quarters at the Mission.

"Miss Ruth," He informs me, "I have discovered your father, Reverend Cole, is ministering to the railroad workers of the Union Pacific."

"Then I shall go."

The Reverend admonishes me, "This is no place for women folk, missy. If your father had a church, I would have no qualms escorting you to him. I forbid you to go."

I give a complaisant nod. For the remainder of the day, I fight back tears and the naughty urge to defy Reverend Masterson's orders. That night, I go to bed with the other girls. Not able to stand it any longer, I make up my mind. I wait a long time before everyone is sound asleep. Creeping out of bed, I hurry into my undergarments (chemise, corset, hoop skirt, and petticoat) and pull my black bow-tie dress over top my head. I grab my black bonnet with the red plaid ribbons, gloves, and my wool cape.

"Goodbye, Mother," I whisper dolefully.

When daylight breaks, I leave Council Bluffs, bereft from the sudden void in my life. It is unfair that the only person who loved me in the world left so soon. Looking at the sky, I pray to the Heavenly Father that Papa will be overcome with joy after years a part from his only child. Despite my father's flaws, I miss him and am certain he misses me. I leave Council Bluffs on the train bereft but I leave with a thread of hope that I will find my father, reunite with him, and have a family again. Any questions asked why I am traveling alone, I will reply that the Mission sent me.

* * *

***Note*** This concludes the end of the first chapter. I made the decision to tell the story in the present tense which I thought would be an interesting concept. I only used the past tense with flashbacks and will try to use this sparingly in further chapters. I ship JBM and Ruth and hope they get back together in Season 4. I hope to see more JBM fanfics out there!

***Extra*** There was not enough room to fit my entire blurb, so here it is in its entirety:

Ever wonder what led up to Joseph Black Moon and Ruth Cole forming a friendship that transformed into a sweet love story that captivated fans in Season 1_?__Two Worlds Collide_ fleshes out these poignant stories of a curious Cheyenne warrior turned Christian struggling with his identity, Joseph Black Moon, and a preacher's daughter whose innocence shatters in her unraveling world, Ruth Cole, told with the backdrop of the grungy, nomadic, dangerous town of _Hell on Wheels_. I do not own this story nor the characters. Reviews are welcome.


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